Elimination Tactic #1: Identify the Target
Katsuki did not hold grudges. That would imply emotion—a pointless, inefficient variable that compromised judgment.
He preferred to think of it as strategic risk management.
And right now, the risk that needed to be managed was some nameless, spineless, spectacularly incompetent excuse for a lawyer who had, at some point, convinced himself that he had the right to leave Hana Sukehiro behind.
She hadn't given him a name. Not surprising. He doubted she ever spoke of this ex unless absolutely necessary. She had stated the facts like they were case evidence, not personal history—detached, matter-of-fact, as if they weren't the kind of details that warranted annihilation.
Fine. He didn't need her cooperation. He had resources.
Tokyo University's Faculty of Law was a tight-knit, elite circle, and Katsuki still had contacts there—professors, department heads, the occasional career counselor who funneled their best students into his firm for internships.
He started there.
One well-placed phone call to a professor who owed him a favor. A simple request:
"Three years ago. Top of her class. Hana Sukehiro. Who was she dating?"
There was a pause, followed by a low chuckle. "Ah, you mean Shinji Arakawa?"
Shinji Arakawa.
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once against his desk.
Name acquired.
Tactic #1: Success.
Elimination Tactic #2: Assess the Target
Arakawa had taken the bar exam straight out of Todai and passed on his first attempt. Not an impressive feat—just an expected one.
Unlike Hana, who had actually been tested by failure, this man had coasted through on average intelligence and good timing.
Katsuki found his firm within minutes—one of the mid-sized Tokyo firms that prided itself on being 'prestigious' but didn't actually matter. Not in the way Katsuki's firm did. Not in a way that carried any real weight.
A paper-pushing corporate lawyer. No trial experience to speak of. No major clients. His case record was mediocre at best, and his professional reputation? Non-existent.
Katsuki had seen summer interns with more promise.
And this—this—was the man who had looked at Hana Sukehiro and decided she was too much?
His jaw ticked.
Tactic #2: Success.
Elimination Tactic #3: Destroy the Target
The most efficient way to cripple a man's career was not through brute force. That was messy, unsubtle, inefficient.
No—Katsuki preferred precise, surgical strikes.
He started with reputation.
A quiet word to a few strategic contacts—partners at larger Tokyo firms, people who actually mattered in corporate law. The message was simple:
"Keep an eye on Shinji Arakawa. He's got a history of bad judgment."
That was all it took.
The legal world thrived on word of mouth, on reputation, on perception. A single whisper in the right places could close doors before the idiot even realized they'd been unlocked.
Next, he moved on to existing clients.
Corporate firms survived on their ability to retain business, and Arakawa's firm wasn't exactly overflowing with prestigious accounts. Katsuki had three separate clients with overlapping contracts handled by them.
It took less than an hour to reassign those accounts to his firm.
That was the first real hit—one they wouldn't recover from quickly.
Tactic #3: In progress.
Collateral Damage: None
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, scanning the damage so far.
Reputation: compromised.
Client base: shrinking.
Career trajectory: derailed.
Efficient. Clean. A quiet eradication.
And Hana?
She would never know.
Because this wasn't about her. It was about principle—about setting a standard.
Men like Arakawa didn't get to walk away unscathed after proving themselves to be cowards with poor judgment.
Katsuki wasn't angry.
Anger was irrational. Unproductive. A waste of his time.
This was simply a correction.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
-----
Hana was in the middle of a perfectly normal workday—well, as normal as workdays got when you were the executive assistant to Nagoya's reigning tyrant in a three-piece suit—when her phone rang.
She barely glanced at it before answering. "If this is about a filing error, let me stop you right there—I don't make mistakes."
A sharp laugh rang through the speaker.
"Relax, Hana-chan. Not everything is about you."
Hana's brain short-circuited for a second, processing the voice. "Mika?"
"Yep," Mika confirmed, amusement laced in her voice. "Guess who's having the worst week of his life?"
A slow, creeping sense of dread curled in Hana's stomach.
"…Mika," she said carefully. "Whatever you're about to tell me, I don't think I want to know."
"You definitely want to know," Mika corrected gleefully. "Shinji is getting wrecked."
Hana sucked in a sharp breath, heart slamming against her ribs.
Shinji.
Shinji Arakawa.
Her ex. Her former fiancé. The man who had once promised her forever and then ghosted her before she could even say goodbye.
Not that she cared. She didn't. She had moved on, buried that heartbreak so deep it had become part of her foundation.
But—
"What do you mean, wrecked?" she asked, even as her entire body braced for impact.
Mika didn't hold back. "He lost three major clients in the past week, and suddenly, partners from the big leagues won't even look at him. Like someone's been whispering in the right ears."
Hana's vision blurred at the edges.
This wasn't random. This wasn't bad luck.
This was tactical. Deliberate. Planned.
And she knew exactly who had done it.
Her blood boiled.
"Mika," she said, voice eerily calm. "I have to go commit violence. Call you later."
She hung up and marched straight for Katsuki's office.
-----
Katsuki's office was never locked. He didn't need locks—no one was stupid enough to invade his space uninvited.
Well.
Hana wasn't most people.
She shoved the door open without knocking.
Kai was there. She didn't care.
Katsuki barely looked up, already sensing the incoming storm.
"I trusted you with one piece of information," Hana said, stepping inside, rage crackling around her like a live wire. "And what the hell did you do?"
Katsuki exhaled slowly. "I didn't do anything."
"Don't lie to me."
A flicker of something sharp crossed his face.
Then, with the exhausted patience of a man who wasn't patient at all, he said, "Fine. I was doing you a favor."
"Favor?" Her voice pitched higher. "FAVOR?!" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I NEVER ASKED FOR A FAVOR, HASEGAWA!"
Katsuki's eyes narrowed. "He deserved it."
"You don't get to decide that!"
"He left you."
For a moment—just a fraction of a second—she couldn't breathe.
And Katsuki must have noticed, because his expression shifted, just slightly.
But Hana wasn't done.
She surged forward, slamming her hands onto his desk. "You don't get to dictate my life. You don't get to fix things that I never asked you to fix!"
Katsuki's jaw tightened. "The problem with you, Sukehiro, is that you let things happen and never do anything about it."
Hana shrank back, momentarily stunned.
Then she—shrieked.
"NOT EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE FIXED, YOU NARCISSISTIC CONTROL FREAK!"
Kai, who had been observing in tense silence, finally stepped in.
"Both of you," he said, voice sharp, cutting. "Lower your goddamn voices."
Neither of them listened.
Katsuki straightened, voice deadly even. "You're saying I should have just let it go? Let him keep his career, his reputation, after what he did?"
"YES," Hana shot back. "Because it's not about him! I don't give a shit about Shinji, but his family—his mom is sick. His sister is still in college. You're not just screwing him over, you're hurting them too."
Katsuki's expression didn't change. But something imperceptible shifted in the air.
"You think I care?" he said, quietly. "If you don't like how I run things, Sukehiro," Katsuki said, tone sharp as a blade, "then quit."
Hana didn't hesitate.
"Fine!"
She yanked off her work ID, grabbed her firm-issued phone, and threw them both onto his desk.
A sharp, final statement.
The silence was absolute.
Katsuki stared at her.
Kai exhaled slowly, like he had seen this exact disaster unfolding in real-time and had been powerless to stop it.
Hana swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to steady.
Then—without another word—she turned on her heel and walked out.